Beastborn
by Rjalker
Summary: Bran knows nothing about dragons or Greybeards. And he doesn't care about them, either. The only destiny he's worried about is joining Hircine in his endless hunt. Looking at the Bosmer woman that is the newest Companion, no one expects the savage glee that hides just behind her midnight eyes. A Collection of Oneshots about the werewolves of Skyrim.


** Created on 1/8/14, 9:29PM**

The man who had been named Bran felt a chill waft over his skin. The torch in his hand didn't so much as flicker. Skjor, the man he liked to think of as a mentor—there was too great a difference in their strength of spirit to be friends, Bran would never feel worthy of such an honor as to call the man his equal—stood calmly by the wall of warm stone that made up the base Skyforge, though Bran noticed with sharp eyes that the exposed flesh of his wrists were covered in goosebumps as well.

Faendal, who lounged against the wall of the meadhall, yawned widely, baring his teeth at the sky, apparently the only one among their small group not to notice the change in the air.

Shifting restlessly in his leather armour, the dark-eyed warrior found his gaze drifting back to the cleverly disguised entrance in the stone that his shield-sister had disappeared into only moments before. He didn't know Aela all that well—they'd never had a chance to speak, though she seemed friendly enough—but he couldn't help but feel suddenly...

...He wasn't sure how to describe the feeling. Anger? Protectiveness? Wariness? _Fear_?

Another chill passed over him, and Skjor straightened. Without a word, he turned, and pressed his palm into the stone that made up the door to the "underforge". The wall shivered, like heatwaves over a pyre, and he stepped through.

Bran heard the small noise of awe from his friend behind him, but didn't stop to think before he was following his mentor into the still shimmering doorway of stone. His feet moved without his accord, his mind filled with questions and a sudden, inexplicable, assurance.

His questions would be answered, soon enough. And soon enough, he suddenly knew, he would be his mentor's equal. Not only in knowledge, but power as well.

"Wait here," He said softly, turning his head to meet his friend's eyes. There was a moment of hesitation where he knew the Bosmer was debating whether or not to listen. Then he nodded.

Then Bran stepped through the archway, and he knew that his friend wouldn't be able to follow even if he wanted to.

Blinking at the sudden change of light, Bran felt another icy chill run down his spine at the sight that met his slowly adjusting eyes.

And somehow, past the thick black fur, animalistic shape, gleaming eyes and bone-breaking claws, he recognized his shield-sister in the werewolf standing before him.

Cold settled in the pit of his stomach, though it had nothing to do with fear.

"I'm glad you came," Skjor said, directing his attention away from the werewolf standing across the small cave. There was pride in his voice. "It's been a long time since we had a heart like yours among our numbers. That pitiful ceremony behind the hall does not befit warriors like us. You are due more honor than some calls and feasting."

His heart suddenly pounding in his chest at the realization of what was going to happen, Bran could do nothing but agree. He recognized the coldness inside him for what it was. The thrill of the chase was in his veins, and there was no comparing it to the will of the other Companions, as fierce and ready for battle as they were.

His mentor turned his gaze on him, and he felt his heart quicken even more. Something inside him was raging for a fight, and wanted loose.

"I would hope you recognize Aela, even in this form." He said. There was the barest hint of challenge in his voice. The werewolf pulled back its lips, revealing teeth that could cut through bone. A smirk. A display of her strength. Of his strength to come.

He nodded, not even able to imagine _not_ being able to recognize her.

Skjor's mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles. "She's agreed to be your forebear."

Even with the unfamiliar word, Bran knew the only meaning it could posses. A breath that was almost a gasp was sucked into his lungs.

"We do this in secret," His mentor explained, moving around to the other side of the strange, pedestal-like bowl that had been carved into the stone of the floor, "Because Kodlak is too busy trying to throw away this great gift we've been granted. He thinks we've been cursed. But we've been blessed. How can something that gives this kind of prowess be a curse?"

The werewolf snorted, a small growl rumbling in her throat.

"So _we_ take matters into our own hands." Skjor said, his voice also taking on the hint of a growl, "To reach the heights of the Companions, you must join with us in the shared blood of the wolf." His eyes locked onto Bran's, and the warrior suddenly realized just how commanding his mentor's one-eyed gaze was.

How could he not have seen it before? He'd hunted and been hunted by the feral wolves of Skyrim often enough to have learned their behavior. He saw the way the weaker ones bowed and curved their spines under the glare of the alpha. Skjor commanded such power over all of the Companions, even the ones that didn't realize it. When he entered the room, all voices were hushed, and all heads inclined in respect.

"Are you prepared to join your spirit with the beast world, friend?" The gaze softened, and gone was the slight hint of hostility. Gone was the challenge. Gone was the commanding steel of an alpha. Now all that was left was Skjor of the Companions, asking him if he wanted to truly be equals. If he would share in the power that joined them all together, that made them truly a family.

There was no choice. Not for Bran, not with his very soul hungering for the fight, the chase, the kill, the _blood_. "I'm ready." He said without hesitation. His voice was calmer than it had ever been before.

"Very well." His mentor drew a blade from his side, and moved to stand next to the werewolf. She lifted one dagger-clawed paw out, and he gripped it with his free hand. The blade flashed and black ichor welled to the surface, impossibly dark against the grey-tinted skin that hid beneath the midnight fur.

Flowing down the claws like water, the ichor dripped into the stone bowl, swirling and opaque with the deepest red flashing in the light, bringing with it an odor so strong and thick that it filled the air until Bran could almost taste it in his lungs.

Iron. The scent of blood.

Chills swept down Bran's spine and didn't stop. His heart pounded in his chest, soaring with adrenaline.

He stepped forward, and locked gazes with the werewolf. With Aela. His shield-sister. His forebear.

He knew in that second that this was the moment his entire life had been leading up to. His soul sang within his veins, urging him froward, urging him toward the blood and power and strength she had offered.

His foot braced itself against the foot of the bowl, one arm rested against the lip. He leaned over, one hand dipping into the crimson midnight that awaited him in the basin. It was so cold it burned his skin, but he didn't care.

He brought it to his lips.

And the world went black.


End file.
